


Castaway

by cloudfree



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accountant Castiel (Supernatural), Escape, Eventual Romance, Gen, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Non-lethal Injuries, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Shipwrecks, Survival, Tags May Change, Temporary Blindness, Wilderness Survival, two bros stranded on a remote island
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22765303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudfree/pseuds/cloudfree
Summary: A shipwreck leaves Dean Winchester marooned on a remote, uninhabited island with no hope of rescue. Castiel, another survivor, has been blinded in the same wreck. Together, the two of them must work to survive, heal, and formulate an escape, learning more about each other in the process.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Castaway

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. It’s been awhile since I posted anything and I decided to start off the new year with a multichapter that I’m gonna try to be vigilant about updating. I actually wrote this first chapter last year but I came back to it recently cause I thought it might be good to put something out. Hope you guys like it :)

Dean woke up to searing, flashing pain in his legs. A throbbing ache, a million times worse than any hangover he’d ever had the pleasure to experience, shot through his head like a bolt of lightning. Coarse sand coated his rough, bloodied fingertips; when he put his hand to the back of his skull it came away sticky and red. His arms were sore. A cut just above his cheekbone smarted unpleasantly, oozing blood in bright red rivulets down his chin. 

Swaths of water licked at his aching body in cool, stinging ripples. The clothes on his body were torn, damaged beyond repair. His mouth tasted of salt and iron. Dean spit out a glob of something unidentifiable onto the sand, grimacing.

The sun beat down on his back in waves. His shirt was soaked with sweat and gritty seawater, and his trousers itched, uncomfortably stiff. Dean pushed away the urge to strip completely, instead lying there prone, facedown on the heated softness beneath him. 

It hurt to move. It hurt to think. Everything hurt. 

But Dean had to focus. _C’mon, get up,_ he urged himself, but even to him the command seemed futile. 

After a monumental effort, and pain so intense it had him sobbing breathlessly into his enclosed fist, Dean found himself lying on his back, eyes shielded from the blinding sun by an arm thrown haphazardly over his face. His legs lay still and vulnerable, and Dean found that while one of them responded weakly to his motions, the other fell alight with searing pain at the base and refused to yield, even when he tried to kick and claw and gain traction against the liquidlike sand. 

Maybe his ankle had been broken when the ship crashed. It was useless to him, in any case, with the way it stubbornly refused to budge, agony sparking and leaving white-hot pinpricks of pain in the corners of his eyes as he had tried to turn himself over. 

So he gave up, laying back with a pained huff. He was going to die here, anyway. 

His brother and his wife - those two little kids of theirs — waiting all the way out in another country, anticipating his visit — they’d be in for a disappointment, now. He’d never see Sam again. And to think they were only just making amends for the things they had done, the things they’d said to each other. 

It was funny how he’d been more afraid of airplanes as a medium of transportation before today. Dean had vehemently forbade Sam to book him plane tickets, instead choosing to travel in a cruise ship because there was no way he was gonna go on one of those “flying metal tin cans of death” ever again. 

And then the damn ship had crashed somehow, he didn’t know where, but the sea had generously deposited him onto this island, the name of which he couldn’t even begin to figure out either. If anyone else had survived, he didn’t know. All those people, too. A railspike of nausea stabbed through his gut and left him heaving silently.

His heart was in his mouth. Something inside him was broken - it felt as though a red-hot brand had been taken to his chest. He swallowed another mouthful of thick, syrupy blood with a grimace.

A tiny whimper escaped his throat. He was going to die. He was only twenty eight. He was…

Small crabs scuttled beside his limp form busily, distracting him from his morbid thoughts. A bird wove in and out among the sun bleached clouds like a kite. The sky was blue and serene. It would be the last thing Dean would ever see, he thought as he listened to the ocean waves crashing upon the shore. 

His vision fuzzed over, and even as he fought to keep his eyes open they began to slip shut. His ankle wasn’t hurting so much anymore. Now that he thought of it, nothing really hurt too much anymore. Maybe…

“Hello?”

Dean turned his head toward the sound. Was he hallucinating? The pain of the action was unbearable, his mind a muddled soup of adrenaline. The voice came again. “Is someone there?”

A large wave crashed over him suddenly, enveloping him whole and filling his nose with burning water. When it receded, he was left coughing and sputtering weakly, jerking like a half dead fish. Maybe he ought to get further away from the water. 

Didn’t seem to be worth it, though. Not like he could, anyway.

“Please tell me I’m not alone here…” the voice said from somewhere behind him, almost to himself. It was deep and full of gravel, unmistakably male. Maybe the guy had face planted here too, eaten a bunch of sand or grit when he did -- maybe that’s what made his voice so deep and baritone. It, Dean reflected gravely, might also be the last voice he would ever hear.

Dean forced himself to speak. It was like his vocal cords had been thrown into a meat grinder. “Hi,” he rasped quietly, unsure if the stranger had heard or if he was even real. If not, he might as well play along with whatever reprieve his brain was trying to give him in his final moments.

“You’re alive?” Surprise colored the voice. “Wait, you’re alive! Oh my god. Are you okay?”

“J-” Dean fought another hack from erupting out of his throat. Blood pooled in his mouth again but he forced it back down, ignoring the unpleasant taste. “Just peachy. What d-does it look like?” 

A face came into his view, blurring and hazy at the edges. It slipped in and out of Dean’s focus. “There’s a problem,” it said, concerned and sounding strange even to his waterlogged ears. 

Dean waited for him to continue wearily. The stranger looked alarmed for a minute, but seemed to regain himself. 

“I, uh, can’t see.”

Dean’s eyes opened, and clarity returned to them for a brief, blessed moment. He raised his head weakly. “You what.”

The other man was scratching his head. Blue eyes came to rest at somewhere above Dean’s left shoulder. The waves crashed around them thunderously. “Must’ve hit my head when I fell. In any case, I can’t really tell what you look like.” There was not an ounce of concern in his voice - he said it as though he was merely relaying the weather.

Groaning, Dean closed his eyes. His head dropped back into the sand, the impact harder than he thought it would be. It sent shockwaves of pain lancing through his body. “R-right back at ya, buddy.” 

“Do you think you can get up?” The stranger asked. “Is anything broken?”

Dean laughed, a short, hysterical sound. “My ankle, probably. M’ not feeling too hot.” He couldn’t really see his legs from this angle, but then again, neither could the other guy. 

“Which one?” 

“Righ‘.” Dean murmured. _Or was it left?_ It was getting harder to keep his eyes open. His vision blurred, then dimmed. “Hey, if you get out of here...”

“You aren’t going to die,” the stranger said sharply, “not on my watch.” He lifted two unsteady hands. Dean watched as they hovered over his left leg with disinterest. “Hey, tell me if I’m getting warmer.”

“C-colder,” Dean slurred. A trickle of saliva threatened to dribble down his cheek. He licked most of it away, then wet his lips uncertainly. “You’re by my, uh, left leg.”

“Okay,” said the other man, not losing focus. Warmth curled around his left shoulder, squeezing uncertainly. “I’m gonna lift you up now. Bear with me.” The stranger’s voice hummed with reassurance. It was soothing, and warm. So warm. 

“Hey, at least buy me dinner, first,” Dean sputtered weakly as he felt himself get hoisted up to a sitting position. He raised an arm and felt a warm shoulder waiting for him like a bulwark. Gratefully, he lay it across that wide expanse and allowed himself to lean fully against the other’s solid mass. 

When he turned his head, he was met with a clear view of the guy’s face. White sand peppered a shock of wild, dark brown hair, giving him a somewhat older appearance. It was a ruggedly handsome face, framing a pair of ocean blue eyes. They were blindly regarding the open air behind him, nestled under quirked, severe-looking brows. His chapped, flat mouth pursed in confusion at the remark. He looked to be Dean’s age.

“I don’t think we’re in a civilized area at the moment,” he said, looking at Dean as if he had grown a second head, “If you see any restaurants or other signs of life, though, then let me know.”

“Uh..” Dean said quizzically. Was this guy messing around? “Y-yeah, will do.”

The man guided him shakily to his feet. Excruciating pain followed Dean at every slight movement, scorning his every step. His muscles ached, arms sore as he was drawn up to lean on his left foot, the other hanging loosely off to the side. The man supported Dean’s weight without flinching. 

“Can you walk?” he asked. 

Dean bit back a scream. “I think so, but not — not for long.” His bones lurched and jarred against themselves. He clenched his teeth in agony. 

“That’s fine, I just need to get you away from the shore.” Dean felt his face turn toward him, hot breath ghosting along the side of his face. It took away from the pain for a few moments, but every time his limp foot parted the sand as his companion dragged him away from the water, it sent electric shocks shooting up his spine. It took everything in him not to collapse right there.

They sidled up the gentle swell of the sand to a rock face a few meters up the slope. Dean had been facing the ocean from where he had been lying, so he hadn’t seen the lush green flora that covered the island like a blanket. Tall palm trees dotted the shore, and further inland lay a wide sprawl of ferns, grasses, and sturdy jungle trees boasting curled, coquettishly-petaled flowers and brightly colored fruit above a thicket of brambles and dried brush. A seagull squawked once from its perch unseen, then took to the sky and disappeared into the sun’s glare.

The cliff was small and plateaued at the top like a small table, with small pebbles littering its base. After gently propping Dean up against its incline, making sure to carefully straighten his legs out in front of him, the stranger sat on the ground next to him with a huff. His gaze was unseeing.

Dean turned his head to stare at him. His head was throbbing again, and the stress of the movement had thoroughly exhausted him. “Thanks, man.”

“Castiel.” The man said without looking up. His gaze was focused on a small seashell lying by his feet, although Dean doubted he could see it at all. “And you’re welcome.” 

“Name’s Dean,” he replied wearily. “Where’re you from?”

“Let’s talk about that later,” Castiel said severely. “You’re extremely injured and I think I made it worse. I didn’t want to move you too far but you would’ve drowned or washed out to sea if you’d stayed where you were.” 

“S’fine, Cas,” Dean slurred, waving it off. The man flinched slightly at the nickname, but seemed to accept it. “Now what do you need me to do, doc?”

Cas frowned. “You misunderstand. I am no doctor.”

“That’s — you know what, never mind.” Dean rolled his eyes. It was easy to, because they were already on the verge of rolling back in his head. His legs throbbed insistently, and his chest caught on each inhale. “Mind if I close my eyes… for a bit?”  
  
But Castiel wasn’t listening. In a swift movement, he shrugged off a beige trenchcoat Dean hadn’t noticed he was wearing and had draped it onto Dean’s shoulders. “Do you see bone?” He asked hesitantly, “Has anything broken skin?”

Someone had attached lead weights to his eyes. Dean fought to keep them open, but he was failing fast. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I’m not bleeding. Just bruised a little.”

Castiel sighed, and Dean could hear the palpable relief in his voice. “Well, that’s good.” Suddenly, he gripped Dean’s ankle firmly, not cruelly tight but still hard enough for Dean’s vision to white out for a good ten seconds. With a yelp, Dean went slack.

“What was that for?” he asked when he could see again.

Castiel gave the space of sand next to him an irritated look. “To check if the bone was shattered or broken in two or anything. It’s not, by the way.”

“Are you even supposed to do that to someone who’s broken something?”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Castiel huffed, and felt his way to the other leg. The pain was significantly milder, but still made Dean hiss and clench his teeth in discomfort. His companion gave him a sympathetic glance and released him quietly. 

“I can’t tell what’s going on with your left leg, but it’s safe to say it’s probably just bruised or something.”

Dean frowned. “And what about you? How’re your eyes?”

“Well, I still can’t see, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I don’t think that’s normal,” Dean mumbled. The mishandling of his legs had been enough to jolt him awake, but his head still swum dizzily. 

For just a moment, the impassive expression on Castiel’s face slipped. “No, it’s not.”

They listened to the crescendo of the ocean waves beating rhythmically against the shore. Dean looked out at the beach around him and saw crystal clear waters humming gently, the bright teal closer to shore gradually fading out into a darker, richer blue further away from the island. The rustle of palm trees in the air, and the cry of a seagull snapped him out of his reverie. 

“Might you know where we are?” Castiel asked suddenly, without looking at him. 

Dean shrugged, then remembered that he wouldn’t be able to see it. “Beats me.”

“Do you think we’ll be able to get back home?” 

“I dunno, man.”

Cas seemed to remember something, standing up slowly. His black suit was dusted with a thin film of powdery sand. “Well, we should probably find shelter before night falls.”

Dean nodded absentmindedly. Sitting in one position had made his ankle stop throbbing so much, and things were much clearer when the haze of pain was reduced to a low thrum from the loud roar it had been. “Yeah, maybe.”

“But how are we going to move you?” Castiel asked. “Should you even be moved right now?” 

He had a point. Dean’s father had always told him, when him and Sam were still moving from hotel room to hotel room like a bunch of vagabonds, to never move someone who’d broken something. It’d just damage the limb further, and cut into vital regions. 

But they weren’t in the Midwest anymore, in a seedy hotel with his dad and kid brother and a whole bunch of first aid equipment and shady parental advice. No, somehow Dean had managed to get himself washed up on the shore of an uninhabited island with no food, no supplies, and another man just as banged up as he was, if not worse. His luck was truly spectacular. 

Dean grunted. “I’ll live. Just hoist me up and I’ll tell you where to go.”

And so they went. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos feeds my soul :) reviews are always appreciated. Thank you!


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